


Between darkness and indifference

by frabjousday (frabjous)



Category: Forbidden Game - L. J. Smith
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frabjous/pseuds/frabjousday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happiness isn't where anyone expects to find it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between darkness and indifference

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xris/gifts).



> With thanks to princesslauren for her beta services and encouragement.  
> Title is an English translation of the lyrics in Derniere Danse by Kyo.

Jenny is laughing. She laughs with her whole body, eyes half-lidded in the sun, nose wrinkled, shoulders pressed in. She tosses her head back so her cropped hair falls behind her like a mane of gold.  _She’s the epitome of joy,_ he thinks.  _This is what joy should look like._

“It’s over-exposed,” Julian says, his nose almost touching the print. “You should’ve used a longer lens and increased the aperture.”

Zach doesn’t ask how he can properly see the details or critique things like overexposure in the dim red light, but maybe Shadow Men can just know that sort of thing. Maybe they can sense the particles and molecules on the filmy paper, and maybe Julian can detect the exact chemical composition and color spectrum of the inks.

“It’s a candid photograph,” Zach explains. “Capturing the subject is more important than the equipment or the setup.” 

He straightens and looks back at Zach. Something about Julian’s expression and the way the red light throws shadows over his face sends shivers down his back. It reminds him of being hunted. “You could also submit something less cliched.”

“But you’re biased towards the subject matter.” Julian is dead, he’s sure of that. If Julian were still alive Zach probably wouldn’t be talking to him with impunity, he’d be a curled up whimpering mass in the corner of the room. This isn’t Julian, it’s a subconscious desire projected into the body of the man who was responsible for terrorising Zach and his friends during the last years of high school. He’s not quite ready to analyse why his subconscious thinks placing Julian repeatedly in Zach’s dreams as an art critic is a good idea, but he’s been reading a lot of Freud and Jung lately.

Julian smirks. “Maybe. But I’m also right.”

The inner door to the darkroom is open and Zach never leaves the inside door open. Anyone from the outside could open that door and let unfiltered light in. It means assholes like Julian can stroll to the entrance with the purpose of someone who wants to ruin his developing process. “Don’t be a prick,” Zach says, and Julian’s hand pauses on the door k nob for a second.

The white light momentarily blinds him.

Zach blinks. He’s standing in a cacophony of bright neon and movement. Brash carnival music assaults his ears, popcorn and plastic crunch under his feet as a firm hand pulls him through the crowd. He bumps into a blonde-haired girl with wide green eyes and sticky fairy-floss fingers and there’s a moment of recognition, but when he looks back she’s already lost in the throng of people. And Julian is still tugging on his hand insistently, enough that he stumbles a little.

“I don’t go to amusement parks anymore.” Saying that it’s Julian’s fault would be an understatement. They stop in front of the carousel ticket booth.

“You didn’t find Joyland Park  _joyous_?” His mind replicates the exact blue of Julian’s eyes, the curve of his cheeks and lips, the mist of white hair, and now adds arcs of alternating red, blue, green, yellow lights across his face as the carousel spins merrily. His face is impassive and unreadable, but Zach thinks he might be amused. This Julian exudes a dry humour Zach doesn’t remember and none of the stalker tendencies he does.

“You kidnapped us and held us in that fucking lighthouse for weeks...”

He waves Zach away. “You barely saw the Park, you and Tommy had it easy,” and Zach figures yeah, kidnapping is probably on the tamer side of things Julian’s done throughout his existence. “And I let you keep the camera.”

“Generous of you.”

“You  _should_ thank me. Those photos got you into art school.” 

Zach knows. Oh yeah, he knows. He knows that he’s been a constant disappointment to his instructors because he hasn’t produced anything nearly so spectacular as his admission portfolio in the three years he’s been there. He knows they expected him to be some sort of child prodigy. He knows now they think he’s some sort of one-hit wonder, a lucky amateur photographer that happened upon a handful of perfect shots. Zach knows all about being a disappointment.

“You know, my parents never said anything when I got in. Not a goddamned word.” He kicks the dirt absently with his sneakers. “We don’t talk about it, and they never ask me how school is going.”

Julian nods but his attention is elsewhere. Zach follows his line of sight to the familiar blond e girl who’s riding the carousel now. She’s seated on a giant seahorse and when she sees them she waves enthusiastically. He’s a little surprised to see Julian finger-wave back with an odd expression on his face.

“Is that Jenny?”

Julian’s voice is musical in a way Zach can never quite describe when he wakes up, like it could just blend into the false optimism of the carousel organ. “Humans are creatures of pleasure. Don’t expect anything from them unless you can give them something in return.” 

And those eyes - a blue he once wasted a whole afternoon trying to replicate with lighting tricks.

*

There’s an event Jenny organises annually - it was this time last year when he’d taken a picture of her laughing doppelganger - and Zach would call it a reunion except it’s more like a wake. It’s always planned right after Tom’s birthday, and he wonders whether Tom can celebrate a birthday anymore without thinking of his seventeenth’s spectacular and paper houses and blue eyes.

It’s not so much that they’ve grown apart as it is that they’re unable to lead normal lives around each other.

“I saw your latest exhibit,” Tom says and Zach makes a noncommittal noise into his drink. “I thought you hated amusement parks.”

Zach suddenly has an urge to smoke, a habit he’d picked up at college and kept secret from this crowd. Jenny would cluck and mother, and although he’s seen the lighter in Audrey’s purse he suspects they’d all disapprove. There’s a facade of timelessness that they’re meant to keep up at these events, as if they could be teenagers forever. He settles on more of the white wine. “I do. You’d know.”

Tom waits expectantly for him to say more. This is the part he’s worst at, explaining his work. Photography is meant to speak for itself. And it’s unfair Tom might know him well enough to ask the right questions and that Zach can’t throw in a few sentences about post-modernism and be done with it.

“It’s about  him, isn’t it?” 

“Not everything is about Julian.” Zach says his name which is a mistake, and he replies too quickly maybe. Tom’s expression is all pity and condescension when Zach meets his eyes. Like Zach’s the one who spent the last five years of his life studying Norse mythology and runes and conversing with psychics.  _I remember when you weren’t this pathetic,_ Zach thinks.  _I remember a time when I didn’t want to punch you in the face._ “Really.”

“Your last series featured gothic mansions. The exhibition before that was a study of fire. Then there was that one called Shadow Selves-”

“Thank you Tom, I’m familiar with my own work.” 

He’s going to drop out of art school and become a portraiture and family photographer. He’ll take pictures of happy smiley people against bland blue backgrounds and he’ll have to deal with snotty kids, crying babies and brides from hell. His post-processing work will consist of airbrushing away wrinkles and blemishes and retouching makeup. And when he gets really drunk he’ll tell all his colleagues about how he was once actually an artist, and this one time he took some damn good photos that won him a scholarship to one of the best schools in the State. 

He fucking hates portraiture.

“Zach,” Tom starts and he already knows to take big gulps from his wine glass. “Remember in the lighthouse” - he always has to bring up the goddamn lighthouse - “we promised we’d stick by each other no matter what. We’d help each other  no matter what . Right?” Zach’s thankful Tom doesn’t give him enough time to respond. “If you have problems Zach, if you any have problems dealing with what we went through, you need to talk about it. We should talk about it together. We’re friends Zach, the lighthouse...”

“Jesus, Tom. Do you ever listen to yourself?” Zach’s leaving, he needs a goddamn cigarette, and the rest of them can just shove it. He’ll have to deal with Jenny’s voicemail messages for the next month, but it’s not a bad trade-off. At all. He grabs his rucksack from near the door, and raises his hand in goodbye to a startled Michael he passes on the way.

Tom doesn’t quite follow him, but his voice carries to Zach out of the house. “Don’t you dream about him still?” he’s shouting. “I know you do, Zach!”

*

They’re seated on a wooden bench, and Julian is holding a half-eaten corndog in his hand. Zach’s never seen Julian eat and the mere idea of it happening seems too incongruous to imagine. Nevertheless crumbs of batter fall onto his black jeans while he takes small bites and chews not-too-delicately. Zach can’t help but watch as he finishes the last of snack by dragging the wooden stick between his teeth and lips a few times. 

“Good?”

Julian flicks the stick in the general direction of the nearest trashcan.  “Disgusting actually. Human food is a poor substitute.”

“What do Shadow Men eat?” he asks absent-mindedly, and instantly regrets it. 

“People. Souls.” Julian is smiling at him wolfishly with his teeth. He leans in a little and he’s suddenly in Zach’s personal space. “Afraid?”

He doesn’t squirm under the gaze of those eyes, doesn’t move, doesn’t let on that this figment of his imagination can still get under his skin sometimes. He isn’t like Tom after all. He isn’t haunted by the past. “No.”

Julian blinks with those heavy lashes, and somehow his smile becomes warm, even friendly. For a second he looks almost demure.  “Liar,” he says and leans in closer. Zach flinches back automatically but Julian closes the extra distance anyway and then they’re kissing.

It’s sort of chaste, initially at least. The last person Zach remembers kissing was his first and last boyfriend two years ago, and ever since then he’s been in a longterm relationship with his right hand. And oh, Julian’s so good. He presses his tongue into Zach’s mouth insistently, rakes his fingers through Zach’s loose hair, nips and pulls his bottom lip in a way that sends messages straight to his groin. Julian’s right hand rubs circles in the small patch of exposed skin between t-shirt and jeans, and before Zach realises what’s happening he’s making little pleased noises into Julian’s mouth and fitting their bodies tighter together.

When Julian pulls back Zach is panting.

“Why do people close their eyes when they kiss?” Julian asks, but he looks pleased with himself. Zach laughs without thinking about it, but when he stops Julian’s left hand is still slung over his shoulders and his fingers are running along the arch of his neck. He’s not sure how to process this.

“This is fucked up,” he declares. “I am officially more fucked up than Tom.”

Julian’s lips and breath tickle his ear and his whispers seem to warp his words into dirty innuendo. “It’s just a dream Zach,” he’s saying as one hand slides across his thigh, his teeth scraping over his earlobe, “so let yourself enjoy this,” and Julian’s hand comes to rest over his groin. And squeezes. 

There’s something like hunger or need in Julian’s face, an expression Zach can’t quite describe as the boy slides to his knees. He wants to explain that he’s not good at this, in fact he’s actually really shit when it comes to things like sex and intimacy and relationships. His ex had called him frigid.

“You’re not frigid. You need to stop thinking,” Julian says. “Live in the moment.”

_Humans are creatures of pleasure,_ Zach remembers.

He thinks,  _I’ve never seen the sky that shade of blue._

*

A week later Tom shows up on the door of his apartment in the middle of the night.

“You can’t take a hint?” 

Tom grabs his wrist before Zach can close the door on his face. He looks desperate, but maybe Tom just always looks desperate these days. Zach’s already regretting opening the door at all. 

“Can I come in?”

“Tom-”

“Please, Zach. I just need to talk to someone. And Jenny...”

_And Jenny’s moved in with her new beau._ Zach sighs and hears his cousin’s altruistic voice inside his head. “Fuck. Okay, yes you can come in.” And as soon as the words escape his mouth Tom turns that eternally grateful face on, and Zach needs a goddamn smoke already. It’s like inviting a vampire onto the premises. “But don’t touch anything.”

Zach’s apartment is neat because it’s small and because he respects his work and equipment too much to just leave it lying around. All the same his coffee table is covered in piles of negatives he’s been sorting through and the idea of his system getting messed up sends sharp pains to his temples. Tom reminds him too much of his dad, all brawn and no subtlety. 

But Tom doesn’t seem interested in snooping through Zach’s negatives. He waits impatiently on the couch, fingers never quite leaving the backpack on his lap while Zach clears the table and lights a cigarette. It’s then Zach starts noticing that Tom looks like he hasn’t shaved in days and there are heavy bags under his eyes. He reeks faintly of coffee and alcohol and sweat.

“So are you going to tell me what this is about?”

Tom looks at his feet. “I did something,” he says quietly. “I thought I was just dreaming at first but when I woke up I was holding it in my hand...”

“Holding what?” Zach taps some ash into the record bowl.

Tom gives him a dark look and unzips the front pocket of the bag. He takes out what looks like a flattened branch with notches cut into the wood. And Zach has to blink a few times, and he thinks he stops breathing for a minute. 

It’s a runestave.

Zach doesn’t read runes, but all the same he’s pretty sure he knows what’s carved onto it. He feels dizzy. He doesn’t realise Tom’s been talking until he catches the end of the sentence. “What?” he croaks.

“I must have been sleepwalking, I don’t even remember carving it.” Tom’s voice sounds hollow. “I haven’t slept for two days, I’ve been up reading everything I can about Shadow Men. I haven’t told anyone else about it.” And for the first time Zach hears panic in his voice. “They’ll make me stop my work, they’ll take away my research.”

“Tom-”

“I’m just getting good, Zach. I even control some of the runes now.” And Zach is speechless, because it’s been a while since he’s properly talked with Tom but it’s clear he’s gone off the deep end. He knows what had happened to their grandfather. He knows how dangerous magic and runes are. 

Tom is pulling an ancient leather-bound book from the bag and flicking through its brittle pages. “I don’t know why he tried, he can’t possibly succeed with some sort of sacrifice.” He points to a passage in a language Zach can’t read but there’s an illustration that looks familiar. “Gebo. A gift, a willing sacrifice, death.”

“You’re not even a little bothered by the fact Julian can control you when you’re asleep?”

“I know how to stop it next time.” And there’s that stubborn determination that’s familiar but so foreign on this stranger Zach doesn’t recognise. “I can stop him. I can beat him.” Zach needs to call Jenny, that much is clear. Get Tom a fucking therapist, the man needs help.

“Jesus, Tom.” Zach’s Dali wall clock fills the silence with its ticking as he tries to formulate a coherent response. “Of all the people you should have gone to, why did you come here?”

Tom looks confused for a moment. “I don’t know.” He frowns. “I needed to talk to someone and I thought about you, Zach. I thought about the conversation we had last week and the lighthouse, and I felt like I should come here. I know you dream about him.” 

Zach doesn’t ask Tom if he’s guessing or if he waved his hands in the air and just  knew ; he lights another cigarette, breathes in the nicotine and tries to feel calmer. “Okay.” He presses fingers into his temples. “Okay.” He isn’t sure how he’s meant to process this. He wishes Jenny were here with them.

“Is it alright if I stay the night?” he suddenly asks. “I almost crashed the car three times driving here. God, I must seem like such an asshole, but I really need to sleep and I don’t think I can drive home.”

It’s almost midnight, but Zach considers Tom on a manic power trip enough of an emergency to do away with the etiquette of late night phone calls. He gets halfway through dialling Jenny’s number when he remembers that it’s Tom and Jenny he’s talking about, and that almost every conversation they have these day end up in a screaming match. And Zach would really prefer not to wake the neighbours with Tom’s ranting about runes and Shadow Men. They already think he’s strange enough.

Zach has assignments to do, pictures to take. Portraiture job applications he needs to fill out. He has people he sees, friends he supposes, people who are pretentious art students but who are normal in every other way and drink heavily on Friday nights. He’s so normal he’s miserable but miserable is normal. Normal is good.

What he says is, “You can take the couch.”

*

Zach guesses they’re in an art gallery of some sort except the ceiling spotlights only light up blank white walls. Julian is wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black jeans, and his white hair makes him look like an Andy Warhol wannabe. He’s leaning against a wall in a shadowed corner away from the glare of lights. How long had they been doing this? Months? Years? He’s a lucid dreamer, but Zach always struggles to remember specifics. And the specifics are important this time, he’s sure of it. There’s something very important he has to remember but as soon as he reaches for the memory it slips out of his grasp. 

He asks, “Are you really here?” 

Julian tugs Zach closer until his weight sandwiches Julian’s body against the wall. “Is that a question about existentialism?” Julian kisses Zach’s mouth like he owns it, like he’s starved for it. Like he needs Zach and he’s the best thing in the world. “I have something for you,” he says. Something cold and metal gets pressed into his hand and when Zach looks down he’s holding a perfect silver rose. He runs his fingers over the pliable metal that makes up each petal, the curl of the leaves and the needle-tipped thorns. Zach’s almost expects it when he cuts himself. 

I _think I’ve read this fairytale,_ Zach thinks as Julian catches his eye. Blood is welling up from the gash on his finger. Julian holds his gaze as he slowly lifts Zach’s hand to his mouth, takes his index finger between his lips and sucks at it, laps at his cut. The blood stains his lips a darker crimson and leaves bright streaks on his tongue. Julian, eyelashes fluttering, takes his finger to the knuckle and sucks at the digit wetly. 

Zach takes a shaky breath.

“I don’t like to be in debt,” Julian says, “but I need you to do me a favour.” He bites along Zach’s collarbone, leaves bruises on his neck that makes Zach groan and grind their hips together.

“Yes,” he murmurs and before his eyes wet drops of red start blooming from the white walls, unfurling like the petals of a rose. “If I can have you, yes.”

“I’ve been so hungry,” Julian whispers. “I’m famished.” 

*

Zach jolts awake. Something hurts, it hurts like a bitch, and for a few seconds he can’t move anything. Tom’s shaking him and swearing, they’re in the living room with the too-bright lights and was his carpet always that dark red colour? He briefly thinks of the red walls of the art gallery.

He thinks maybe something happened to his hand. 

“Fuck,” Zach says and faints.

*

“You bled all over the runestave,” Tom says accusingly as Zach lays half-conscious in the ambulance. “You were meant to be the sacrifice.” He won’t look Zach in the eye.

*

Zach is six. He’s sitting in the sandpit with tears running down his face because Jenny and his parents are gone and he can’t see them anywhere. He cries quietly, like he does everything else although he knows his dad hates it when he cries. He hates that Zach is afraid of baseballs and rough boys. Zach wants to build sandcastles and draw with crayons. He likes to draw.

A shadow falls over him and when he looks up there’s a man with white hair taking a seat next to him. There’s something a bit strange about the man, and he’s not meant to talk to strangers but Zach thinks would like to draw the man. The man isn’t like anyone else Zach’s met before. The man doesn’t say anything either, but he gives Zach a secret smile and it makes Zach feel a bit better anyway because it means he’s not waiting alone.

And when he finally hears his mother call his name, sees her familiar figure in the distance and he runs towards her. And Zach would tell her about the nice man who waited with him but when he looks back to the sandpit there’s no one there.

*

Zach wakes up with the leather cover of his sketchbook sticking to his face, his mouth dry and his body aching from falling asleep at his desk. He keeps his eyes closed, swallows once, twice, and remembers there’s something he’s meant to be working on. The “joy” assignment, the one he had plenty of time to finish because of the extension, but somehow the deadline crept up on him anyway. Now it’s the night before and Zach is waiting for his prints to develop so he can submit something that’s not horribly cliched.

“I brought you coffee.”

Zach’s eyes snap open.

He’s sitting on the table Zach was just lying facedown on, legs dangling in air and wearing an oversized hoodie which might make him look like a student, except students Zach knew didn’t usually look like magazine models. He holds out a cardboard cup.

When Zach takes an experimental sip it’s black with two sugars. It’s perfect. 

“You’re a lot less terrifying than I remember.”

Julian pulls his legs up to his chest and manages to look simultaneously very young and very old which makes Zach wants to take back his words. Terrifying but in a different way maybe. “We made a deal,” Julian says tersely. “I always honour my deals.” 

“My almost-dying in exchange for coffee?”

His lips twitch. “Something like that.”

Zach hauls himself onto the section of the table next to Julian. “Does that mean I own you?” he asks and he laughs at the killer glare Julian shoots at him. 

“No one owns me.” He reminds Zach of a child now he’s stripped of all his terror. A useful byproduct of owning your own Shadow Man, he supposes.  _Well,_ he thinks as Julian’s mouth curls into a haughty sneer,  _maybe "own" is the wrong word to use._

“But I have you.”

“If you want me.” Julian has been alone for millennias but for the first time Zach wonders why he wanted Jenny at all in the first place. Could Shadow Men even get lonely anymore than they could fall in love?

“I want you,” he says, and he catches an unexpected pleased flush on Julian’s face.

And it’s that moment Zach snaps a picture.


End file.
